


What do you do with Good Old Boys like Me: or (When a small-town farm girl met Dean Winchester.)

by OpheliaLovesHandsomeMen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU ( Benny is not dead), AU ( Gabriel is not dead), Age Difference, Autumn Fic, B&B's, Bars, Bellbottom jeans, Car Accident (sort of), Catholicism, Classic Cars, Classic Rock, Cultural Differences, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Dean Winchester woos Rosemarie, Dean is borderline alcoholic, Dean is tired, Dean playing pool, F/M, Forty-one year old Dean, French-Canadian Characters, French-Canadian cooking, Ice-Skating, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Sex, Protective Dean Winchester, Rosemarie lives on a farm, Set in Canada, Slightly unrealistic, Twenty-one year old Rosemarie, Will add more tags when needed, Winter fic, but only slightly - Freeform, classic country, forestry industry, ghost hunt - Freeform, little country church, mentions of inappropriate bar encounters, mentions of one night stands, nosy widow Polanske, not Gabe's normal vessel, old cemetaries, over stylish writing, pet moose, pet owls, the wind has multiple personalities, woods
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 14:26:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23041348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpheliaLovesHandsomeMen/pseuds/OpheliaLovesHandsomeMen
Summary: Rosemarie never had much luck in love. Then an enigmatic and attractive stranger enters the bar she works at.Dean thinks he's past the chance for love. Then the most eclectic and quirky woman he has ever met catches his eye.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s), Dean Winchester/Rosemarie Bremaud (OC), Original Male Charcter/Original Female Character, Sam Winchester/Eileen Leahy
Kudos: 1





	1. Prologue.

' In the year of Our Lord, 2021, in the southern section of mid-western Canada, too far from the sea to have ever smelled it, in the month of early October, in the small town ( of course it's a small town...) of Dubellville...'

The diary entry remained entirely unfinished as the journalist simply shook her double French braids adorned head in utter disbelief and (let's admit it ) disgust with herself. She promptly shut the book, never to open it again. She swears. "Do keep a journal, my dear, it'll take such un-needed pressure off of your chest, since you refuse to discuss your problems nor speak of your interests to anyone with any degree of sincerity." The brunette groaned in frustration ( with whom she'll never know ) after she'd mimiced the-well- meaning, but could frankly use a new hobby-neighbor of hers, the widow Polanske.

"I always let people talk a good show to me, not doubting that it will work and I still feel stupid when I attempt to accomplish the very thing they've encouraged me to do in the first place! Yes...I fully realize that I may not have the most open of minds when it comes to the subject of diaries or to the idea of spilling the news of one's love life, or lack thereof, to one's nosiest neighbors but, come on! It makes me feel like an emotional 13 year old girl with a crush on the senior quarterback instead of a 21 year old woman who simply cannot make up her tomboy mind and has no luck in Lover's Lane!"

Old Mr.Wind, for all his grand and amiable qualities, has absolutely no idea how to answer this girl, who seems to enjoy his company on a weekly basis. So, he dons his southern charm and blows a warm, Indian-summer breeze upon her face, gently pushing back the fly-away tendrils from her big, mahogany eyes. He hopes this will soothe the belle, if nothing else. "Besides," he whispers to his northern/eastern/western self,"she has no beau at the moment to do just that for her. And she'll never get around to doing it herself."  
Rosemarie ( the name of our illustious brunette ) smiles a little to herself, leans back on the tree branch she's currently occupying and closes her eyes in the sweet and present state of being: surrounded by the sounds of the wind making the maple leaves laugh, then swirl to the ground in complete and satisfied exhaustion.

Once Old Mr.Wind had concluded his carresess , Rosemarie glanced at her analog watch and decided to head back to the house to shower, before she would need to change for her Friday night job.


	2. Roadhouse Meetings

-One week later.-

Her day's end shower over and done with, Rosemarie dressed for her weeknight career, a mysterious and elusive job of great importance and social standing. Then, she grabbed her cayenne coloured purse as she headed out the door.

"Good evening, Mr.Tolkien! A grand night for hunting is it not? The moon should cast a beautiful glow on the harvested wheat fields and offer you such a wonderful and crisp-clear view! Alright, enough talk. How do I look tonight, old boy?"

She is, obviously, speaking to her rescued, fifteen year old, pet Great-horned Owl who is currently nesting in the heavily branched oak planted just outside the house's front door. As is his customary answer, he solemnly turns his head in her direction and looks Rosemarie square in her twinkling eyes. Then he proceeds to blink twice and give a low hoot before ruffling his feathers and turning away to resume his cheerily, interrupted state of dormancy.

"Thank you ever so kindly, Mr.Tolkien! You are a true gentleman indeed."

A smile is plastered on her face the whole twenty-three minute drive to work.

The 10 p.m. crowd had arrived at Millie's Pub down on the old semi-abandoned highway which rolls through the sparsely populated town. The locals fondly named the highway: Copperhead Road, probably in an attempt to feel important. The 10 o'clock crowd only meant one thing; lots of straight vodkas and cheap beers. Okay, alright...maybe being a small-town bartender wasn't as criminally enigmatic and glamorously classy as one had wished, but hey, the company is always either fun, funny-looking or awesome storytellers. And 98% of the patrons are regulars anyways so Rosemarie doesn't need to worry about being uncomfortable nor of having to deal with ass-grabbers. She also had everybody's wives number on the landline's speed dial. You know, in case of emergencies. Or ass-grabbings.

Being a bartender sure beat having Netflix and take-out every night for entertainment. She gets to talk to people here. Outside of work related issues and texting, which can quickly become an unbearable chore. Not to mention, texting gives her a headache if done for long enough. Plus, as employee, she gets all of Millie's leftover chili for free. That's a win-win situation in her book. Diary...Whatever.

At 10:30, Richard, the local mechanic who happens to be a volunteer firefighter, is enthralling anyone who will listen with the latest ditch & shed fire story when Rosemarie has her attention drawn away by the shop keep's bell ringing from it's post above the heavy-duty maple door in announcement of a new patron. And, man oh man, was he ever new. No doubt in hell, Rosemarie would have remembered his charming face if he'd been here before. 

'Huh, he even walks like a charmer.' she thought to herself.

Gabriel, ( her only co-bartender), sneaks up behind her when he noticed the brunette admiring the handsome stranger and he conspiratorially whispers a slightly lewd sounding " Go get him, sugar!" in her ear. When Rosemarie turns around to pin him with a very womanly glare, Gabe merely smirks.

Rolling her eyes in defeated exasperation, she harrumphs. " Get your mind out of the gutter before you prematurely send me 6 feet under in a musty, old grave!" Then, Rosemarie calmly saunters over to the tall stranger. Who sat down at the far and uncrowded end of the magnificent, walnut-stained bar. She sent him one of her quaint, ( Gabe's term), smiles and professionally asked what the good man would like this fine evening. She was pleasantly surprised, ( and delighted), when he looked up from his phone and, honest to God, winks at her as he orders a medium lager with the house special. She decides to take the bait, ( oh Lord, let him not be a creep!), and shoots back a flirty " Beer and chili fries! You must be a man after my own heart!"

" Oh, that's the plan, sweetheart!"

Then he smiled and his tongue peeked out just a tiny fraction. Not nearly enough to be obscene, but quite enough to make Rosemarie's heart beat just a tiny fraction harder. Simply relishing in the impromptu adrenaline rush that the dark green eyed stranger evoked, she tells him, " I'll be right back with that food of yours, so you sit tight!" She gives the bar a few quick, light taps to give herself emphasis. Then she winks cheekily at him before sauntering off. She somberly tries, and fails, to keep the spring in her step under wraps. By the time she got to the counter which separated the bartenders from the cook, Gabe was already on his third verse of the kissy-sounds symphony; accompanied by the fluttering eyelashes during the chorus. 

" You know, Gabe." pondered Millie, who'd torn herself away from her beloved stove and joined the duo at the separator counter, " Once you've grown up a bit, maybe someone will actually flirt with you for a change!" Rosemarie barked out a short laugh at Gabe's expense. Gabriel had the gall to give the ladies the stink eye.

2 minutes later, Rosemarie approached the emerald-eyed, ( Gabe's expression again), stranger with a locally brewed lager in one hand and a pile of entirely homemade chili fries heaped on an old 20's style china plate in the other.

"Quirky." The stranger raised an eyebrow in amusement as he quipped.

"Don't I know it! One of the many reasons that I thoroughly enjoy working here. The environment is positively eclectic," she sighs, " for a roadhouse that is."

The energy oozing off this chestnut haired beauty was beginning to have an effect on him that the travel weary stranger hadn't even imagined that he'd ever experience in nearly 2 decades. He watched as she let her eyes wander in familiar fondness at the interior of the building, his food all but forgotten as he followed her eyes roving in a near reverie over the vintage, dark stained furniture and wooden ceiling. Peering into those wild eyes in those moments, the man felt as if he'd caught a glimpse of her soul that she rarely let anyone at all see. He's sure of it. Once she'd finished she delicately cast her gaze upon the unnamed stranger, her features awash with a bright contentment, a hint of a smile gracing her face.

"Rosemarie!" declared the mood-breaking Hermenigild, one of Richard's buddies, as he leaned back in his saloon styled chair at the other end of the roadhouse, "We need another couple rounds of beer, cherie! If you don't mind tearing your dear self away from the outsider, that is!"

Almost under her breath she muttered to her current, and admittedly more pleasant, companion of conversation, "He always talks to me like I'm a tavern wench from 17th century France. I never know whether I should be fond of it, or annoyed by it!" Than louder for the whole block to hear, "Coming you drunken son of a bitch!"

A good 40 something minutes passed before Rosemarie got enough of a break to come back and inquire if the traveler was in need of anything else. This is because there had been a steady trickle of leaving patrons, not to mention the gang of ripped, drug-dealing bikers who were loudly hustling pool and drinking like fish out of water at the other end of the roadhouse. Very big fish. In the desert. It's nearing midnight and the poor girl is sleeping as she's walking at this point. She sidles up in front of him and, quite softly, asks, "Is there anything else I can get you? Another beer maybe?"

"Thanks though, but no. I still gotta drive for a bit and I wouldn't want to spend the night in jail. Or a hospital, for that matter." She didn't need to know the real reason.  
She nods admiringly at that.  
There's a beat or two of silence, then he pipes in with, "Rosemarie? Pretty name for a pretty girl." He winks at her again. He figures that she must like his winking and his comments by the sheer amount of rosy blushing she's been doing around him. He barely catches her thanks, since she tilted her head towards the ground in an attempt to shield said blush. She breathes in deeply once or twice, then looks at him again as she queries, "Do you mind if I sit here with you?"

Of course he didn't mind, and he told her as much, too. He is, however, a little bit surprised when she gingerly hops her butt on the bar and gracefully slides over it to sit on the stool beside him instead of going around the thing.

'Yeah okay, I like her.'

His eyes are glued to her legs, no matter how impolite that is, because; she may be wearing jeans but, they're those high-waisted, tightfitting bell-bottoms that also have patches of crazy bright orange fortrel sewn on them at the weirdest angles. It was all straight outta of the 1970's. To top that, she's sporting some pumps, coloured in a dizzying swirl of red & blue. Now, he may not know a lot about colour matching, but even he knows that none of this matches her loosely knit burgundy cardigan she's wearing.

'And yet,' he ponders, ' she actually pulls it off really well.'

He snaps out of his trance when she clears her throat.

"Eyes up here, cowboy! Don't matter how much I enjoy studying your pretty hair!"

There's no trace of malice in her tone. She even laughed lightly as he shook his head a little to refocus.

"Sorry." He mumbles.

"S'okay."

She folds her arms on the bar and lays her temple snuggly on the cushion that her cardigan provides, her eyes hooded as they peer up almost fondly at the plaid clad gentleman. He is a gentleman, that she can tell, just by how sincere his tone was when he apologized for staring at her legs. Although she's certain it's her jeans he was so blatantly ogling.

"What's your name, stranger?"

She could only hope it wasn't a variation of Marvin, or Garry, or something equally cringey and cheesy. (Apologies to all the Marvins & Garrys.) Rosemarie is quite relieved when his answer is a simple and classic, "Dean. The name's Dean, sweetheart."

"Hhm, handsome name for a handsome man."

They both start smirking and blushing now.

Rosemarie decides that she very much likes the appearance of his blush creeping down from the apples of his cheeks to tease the edges of his scruffy beard.

'Probably around a three week's growth.' She internally guesses.

" So Dean," she relishes in his name, adding a playful lilt to her tone," where are you from?"

He pauses, his smile sobering slightly, and looks downwards for a second before replying. " I was born in Lawrence, Kansas, but didn't live there long." Another pause. " Spent most of my life on the road to be honest..."

Rosemarie notices the sadness in his eyes as he mentions the absence of a home in his life and deep down she wonders why. But she doesn't question him on it. If he wants to talk, she'll listen, however Rosemarie never pushes anyone for information they'd rather keep to themselves. Dean will be no exception. Instead, she slides her right hand towards him, her head still laying on her left one, then she lay it simply and gently on his wrist, her thumb rubbing soothing circles into his hand.

Dean stares at her hand a good long while, feeling like a deer in the headlights, before searching her eyes for the pity he's certain is there. He can't find a trace of it. She smiles and he smiles right back.

They spend another hour or so talking softly, not saying much but enjoying each other's company nonetheless. Dean finds out that Rosemarie has lived in this neighborhood for nigh on three years now, having grown up a mere hour's drive up north. And Rosemarie learns quite a few of Dean's little quirks, such as the things he's passionate about. That's when they found out about their shared loves; classic cars, Bob Seger, homemade food and a few TV shows and cowboy movies. They also found out about things they don't agree on; Led Zeppelin or Creedance Clearwater Revival, Ford or Chevy, and, the big one, Scooby-Doo or Looney-Toons. (The last one is voted as a tie.) The entire time Rosemarie hadn't bothered to remove her hand from Dean's and he wasn't about to complain. To be touched by a woman in a non-sexual way for the first time since his mother died, again, was comforting beyond words and he refused to be the first to break contact. It may seem like taking advantage of the situation, however, Rosemarie seems very casual about all of it so why make things awkward.

Sometime after midnight Gabriel passed by with a whiskey tumbler full of Rosemarie's favourite ginger, scotch and red wine cocktail. Setting it in front of her, he announces that last call would be in ten minutes, giving Rosemarie and Dean only a few moments to wrap up their conversation before Rosemarie needed to close shop and Dean would need to leave.

Sipping delicately at her classy cocktail, Rosemarie twirls her seat to fully face Dean, a hint of disappointment, and of hope, in her eye.

"You staying anywhere nearby?"

Dean drains his glass of water which Gabriel had brought over at some point, then answers. " I'm gonna go find a 24/7 motel somewhere, then I'll crash for the night." He smiles at her, probably for the umpteenth time that night. " Don't you worry about me, sweetheart."

Rosemarie chews her lip a moment, then inhales harshly before addressing Dean again.

"Well...there's a B&B by my house that isn't expensive and I know for a fact that there's a vacancy. Why not crash there tonight?"

"Wouldn't a B&B be closed already?"

"I'll let you in. I work there on Saturdays, so I got a spare key."

His eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "Ain't that illegal?" He has no problems with doing things illegally, but she should.

She shrugs." Head cop is married to my best friend, who owns said establishment. So it don't matter."

Dean sits silently for another minute. Debating with himself whether sticking close to Rosemarie might cause trouble later on or not. " Yeah, okay. How much per night?"

"Just fifty for a single, breakfast is included."

He nods approvingly.

Gabriel shouts last call, causing Rosemarie to scan the place for last minute drinkers. Satisfied that no one seemed interested in another round and everyone's opting for going home, she turns her attention back to Dean, and briefly mentions, "If you stick around for fifteen minutes, I'll have closed up shop with Gabe and you can just follow me to the B&B. Sound good?"

"Perfectly fine with me, darling. Mind if I grab a glass of water while I wait?"

She shakes her head, chestnut waves coming loose from their bun and getting themselves tangled in her big, round glasses. Dean chuckles as he tenderly frees them, tucking them behind her ears and looking mighty proud of his handiwork. " There, that oughtta hold for now!"

Rosemarie thanks him, a blush once again forming on her sun-tanned cheeks, as she walks away to grab a broom and sweep the cracked and faded, red, tiles that Millie calls her 'aesthetically pleasing floor' .

Gabe whistles to Rosemarie before tossing her the keys. " Millie left early, something about having a date with her ex-husband or someone equally disappointing." Then Gabe returned to the stereo-typical bartending job, wiping the glasses after a hard day's night.

Rosemarie no longer seems to be paying attention to the outside world, instead she cleans the floors with a Cinderella-esque aura, whilst Roy Goldsboro's Broomstick Cowboy croons from the well loved jukebox stashed in the corner. She softly hums along, her feet slowly waltzing to the tune, her bell-bottoms swaying in a hypnotic fashion. Her gaze catches Dean's on occasion and she smiles at him. Like he's the only man in the world. And Dean returns the smiles in kind. 

He's enthralled.

She's hopeful.

It isn't love at first sight per say, but rather something akin to captivation; a mutual fascination, if you will...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another, longer chapter. As a warning, updates will be very sporadic for this particular story.  
Please, leave kudos and comments! I really want to know what you guys think! No hate, please, though constructive criticism is appreciated.  
Stay safe, keep smiling and God bless.


	3. Daydreams and Bikes don't Mix.

Dean follows Rosemarie in her big, moss-green truck all the way to Jamaica's B&B, which is located at the corner of Copperhead Highway and the secluded gravel road which leads to Rosemarie's neck of the woods. 

It isn't a truly grand house. It is, instead, built in a picturesque, Quebecois style complete with a roughly-hewn, dark, stone facade. And it appears terribly creepy in the contrasting lights of the midnight moon and the dim porch lantern; enough to make Dean send a little prayer to whomever might be listening that it isn't haunted, or worse. He really wants one night where he doesn't have to hunt a ghost or worry about witches, or gank a ghoul with varying tastes in it's meat supply. God, he needs sleep! One satisfying and undisturbed night of bone-deep rest. That's all he asks for! That's all he wants! Is it too much to ask? He really hopes that the varsity jacket sporting brunette is 100% certain that the B&B isn't a death trap. 

Exiting Baby, Dean grabs his duffel-bag before joining the beckoning girl as she unlocks the balcony doors. Signaling him to keep quite, she expertly maneuvers herself to the front desk without hitting anything in the dark, turns on a frightfully archaic lamp and whisks out a key from behind her. Which she gingerly places in Dean's awaiting palm as she whispers in a mocking, Cockney accent, straight from the streets of My Fair Lady, " Your key guv'ner! You just pop up those stairs on the right, 'ere," she points, a giggle interrupting her instructions, "march to the first landin' an your room is the only door in sight. Please, refrain from smokin' in the room an from playin' loud music. Breakfast is served in the dinin' room to your left from 6 to 10:30 a.m. I 'ope you 'ave an enjoyable stay in the one an only Jamaica's B&B!"

By the end of her little welcome speech, Dean has tears in his eyes from silent laughter and Rosemarie breaks character for awhile before she manages her last few words. They both enter into a fit of giggles, which are surprisingly very cute to witness coming from a full-grown man. And it's even cuter if he does it alongside a girl he just met.

They finally calm down after a minute or two, then Rosemarie slings her cayenne coloured purse over her shoulder again, truck keys at the ready. 

"Well, Dean, I guess I'll say goodnight... Maybe I'll see you in the morning?"

His brows scrunched in a quizzical form, prompting her to clarify. 

" It's Saturday. I work here on Saturdays, remember... I'll be at the front desk all day. I'd like it very much if you'd stop by and perhaps said hi before leaving or something." She's blushing again, probably feeling ridiculous for asking him in the first place.

Dean felt a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth as he replied, in such low tones that even if the empty room were crowded, Rosemarie would still be the only one who could hear. " I wouldn't dream of leaving without seeing you again."

As he pulled away some more, he sends her one of his earth-shattering winks and, predictably, she blushes once again. Dean has to admit that he thoroughly enjoys being the cause of so many blushes in a single night.

Rosemarie is so overjoyed at the prospect of seeing Dean once more that she spontaneously throws her arms around his neck, pulling him in and sweetly pecking him on his stubbled, right cheek before she has the time to talk herself out of it. Still blushing, she rushes from the reception room and out the balcony door, calling back a shy, but happy " Sweet dreams" to Dean. He stands there, shocked, until the taillights of her beat-up '87 F-350 diesel are no longer visible. He pulls himself out of his daze and drags his duffel up the stairs to his designated bedroom. 

He falls asleep pondering fondly on the pretty brunette with the deep, hazel eyes..

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once home, Rosemarie finds herself in a state of both uncertainty and pure bliss. She'd gotten quite flustered by Dean and, to tell you God's honest truth, she's undecided on whether she feels that she could entirely trust him, or not, now that she is thinking about it without the man being in her immediate vicinity, clouding her judgement. Oh, don't take it the wrong way! Dean is a perfect gentleman and Rosemarie hadn't sensed a lick of discomfort when she was with him. But, she didn't learn much about him, work wise, or even why he's passing through her neighborhood. Eh, maybe she'll ask him tomorrow when she sees him again. If she sees him again. Man, she has got to stop letting herself get high-hopes. That always leads to disappointment in her book. Diary...Crap!

Climbing up Mr.Tolkien's tree, Rosemarie settles on the branch closest to his nest ( Rosemarie made it out of scrap fabric for the old boy, he doesn't like perching as he sleeps), and cuddles with the wizened bird as she conveys the myriad of present thoughts and emotions on her mysterious traveler...Oh fine! She has a girl talk with the owl!

" You know Mr.Tolkien, I believe you would've quite liked Dean! He's so nice, and polite too. First man I meet who's polite without being married. We got along so well! And I've taken such a shine to him and I must say, I feel completely at ease around him. Is that weird? Or creepy? Maybe I'm jumping the gun on this, huh? Oh, he knows a lot about cars! I think he owns an oldie himself. I mean, I didn't see the vehicle really, 'cuz it was dark, but I did hear it and, oh baby what a sound! And that engine! Gotta be late 60's, early 70's. By the way, Dean didn't even blink when my crucifix fell out of my sweater while we were talking and you, of all creatures, know that everyone comments on my religion at least a few times and most of them are nasty, once they find out I'm Catholic. Maybe he's one himself? I might ask him tomorrow, or do you perhaps suppose it's too soon for that question? I mean, we've already survived our arguement over whether Trump is a good president or not. If we still got on swell after that fiasco, I doubt religion will be much of a problem at all!"

She sat, swinging her legs either side of the scratchy branch while she caught her breathe, and stared at the rapidly descending waxing crescent moon before her. The thick, fluffy feathers on Mr.Tolkien's back tickle Rosemarie's nose as the delightful animal burrows his beak deeper into the sweater covering her chest. Suddenly, a thought occurs to Rosemarie which sends slight tremors of horror down her spine.

"Aw, crap, no! What if I scared him off earlier, with my impromptu hug! I was too bold in hugging him, wasn't I? All the men I know say that they don't like bold women. Hell, all the guys I've tried going out with, the good, the snobby and the snooty, have all dumped me because of my boldness. Said I was too much to handle! What if Dean thinks the same way they do...Oh, I really do hope that he's vastly different from them in that respect."

She takes a deep breathe to calm herself down. To not let herself get worked up about things she has no control over, whatsoever. Rosemarie smiles again as Dean's handsome features begin to haunt her mind once more. 

She whispers, as if she is imparting the greatest secret that she's learned this evening, to her great, big owl, who's softly cooing.

"He is so very handsome, though. Downright gorgeous, if you ask me! With those broad and sturdy shoulders, and, oh, the scruff on his jaw! You know how much I get absolutely smitten with a man who is scruffy. And his lips are so pretty too. But not the girly kind of pretty, God forbid! Also, never thought that I'd say this in a million years, but, Mr.Tolkien, I believe I've fallen for a man with short hair. Now, don't jump to conclusions now! His hair is still quite a decent length, if I may say so myself. His faint crew-cut is unforgivably sexy on him...His hair is such an interesting shade too. Not nut brown and definitely not blond, but more akin to a healthy melange of the two. A smidgen darker than that even. And his laugh is the most thrilling sound I've ever experienced!"

A tremour courses through her body, and Rosemarie is no longer certain on whether it's the weather or if it's the thought of Dean which sends shivers down her spine.

She hugs Mr.Tolkien just tightly enough before she places him back in his nest and descends the tree. She sends a quick text to her friend, Jamaica, the B&B owner, letting her know about the unexpected guest. Than she strips for her quick, calming shower. (She really needs it for practical reasons too, seeing as Gabe managed to spill a batch of purple-nurples on her head around 9:30, soaking just her hair and glasses, if you can believe it!)

When she finally falls asleep, it's with thoughts of Dean fluttering behind her eyelids.

**************************************************************

Keeping her excitement at bay the next morning was a feat in and of itself. She hurried through all her chores, nearly forgot about breakfast and then became frantic over what to wear. She finally had to remind herself that this wasn't a date, this wasn't anything but meeting a friendly acquaintance who happened to sweep Rosemarie off her feet. So, she dressed as she usually does to go work at Jamaica's. A flowy, lilac, boho skirt and a cute, dark red, blouse embroidered with cactus. She accessorizes the outfit with a simple wooden bangle and her emerald cowboy boots.

Heading out, Rosemarie forgoes taking the truck and hops on her classy red bicycle instead. There's a marvelous Indian Summer breeze in the air and not too many days left to enjoy it. So Rosemarie takes full advantage. Flying down the road at a speed which should be illegal to daydreamers, she closes her eyes, breathing in the musky air of the humid October day and listening to the crunch of the gravel beneath her wheels and the call of the ravens above her head.

So immersed is she in the tranquil environment surrounding her, that Rosemarie forgets to keep an eye on the bend in the road ahead and thus missed the needed reaction time to swerve and miss the 17 ft long, black beauty rolling down the gravel towards her. Dean hits the brakes hard, expletives flying out of his mouth faster than a bat out of hell, Rosemarie panics for a split second and loses control of the bike. She effectively crashes into the driver door of Baby, tangling her left foot in the bike chains in the process. She also managed to gash her forehead on Baby's door jamb, and that made her vision swim .

Once the initial incident is over, both the car and the bike are completely still and their drivers take a few moments to try to calm the hell down, breathing slowly. Dean is pissed, and when he realizes who he hit, he becomes quite worried as well. Rosemarie's keeping herself upright by leaning entirely on Baby. Judging by the amount of blood running down the left side of her face and the fact that she's paler than any ghost he's seen, Dean just damn well knows that she's about to pass out. 

So, he scrambles across Baby's front seat, exiting by the passenger door and snatching up a gauze pad from the glove box on the way out. He runs around the front of Baby, reaching Rosemarie just in time to catch her. That's when she finally tilts her head up and opens her eyes, since she had shut them tight during the collision. She sees the car, then Dean, and immediately, panic sets itself in her features.

" Oh jeez, Dean! I'm so sorry, I don't know where my head is this morning! I lost focus and now I've crashed into your beautiful car. I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry... I'll pay for any damages, I swear it! I'm..."

Dean cuts her off by placing the very tips of his calloused fingers on her pursed lips, while his right hand grips her waist tightly.

"Let's worry about getting you untangled from this bike and that scratch on your noggin cleaned up, before we blow all 6 cylinders over whether you actually left a dent in Baby. She's had a lot worse happen to her than getting bumped into by a pretty girl."

If Rosemarie wasn't on the verge of either passing out or throwing up, the fact that Dean called her pretty just now would have clicked. As it is, she barely notices as a wave of nausea hits her like a freight train.

Dean carefully pulls Rosemarie away from Baby, taking great precaution to keep her from falling as he examines the situation with her feet and the bike chains. What he sees is that her right foot is unsteadily situated on the ground and that her left foot is awkwardly tangled with the bottom chain, scratching up her mid calf cowboy boot. Rosemarie audibly swallows before she attempts to free her foot by herself. Which failed of course. " Come on Rosemarie, I need you to stop wiggling around and let me do the work. Think you can manage that?"

She nods.

"Great, now I'm gonna lay you down on the grass here to make this a whole lot easier. Now, hold on to me."

Which she does. Dean lays her down, and after about 15 seconds of cursing, he's successful in freeing her foot. Rosemarie lies flat on her back in the tall prairie grass, taking deep breaths between the winces she makes as Dean gently begins to clean the gash on her forehead. He notices as she suddenly loses all colour in her cheeks.

" You okay?"

She has no time to respond before her body lurches itself to the side and she throws up. The final realization that she was indeed in an accident hit her very hard and had pushed her nausea over the edge. Dean delicately holds her hair out of her face for her as she spills everything in her stomach onto the grass. Tears slide down her cheeks in thin, salty rivulets from the force of vomiting. Sweat begins to bead on her healthily tanned forehead. And her soft hands desperately clutch at Dean's left arm where he had it wrapped around her waist to give her some extra grounding. 2 or 3 minutes pass by and Rosemarie's guts finally stop trying to murder her. And when the feeling of nausea has gone on its merry way again, the mildly chaotic scene it leaves in its wake would scandalize any prude and awaken jealousy in any old maid.

Rosemarie leans back upon Dean's chest. His legs frame her hips. Her head rests on his right shoulder and, in an attempt to stem the flow of her tears, her face is tucked in the junction between his neck and collarbone, her eyes pressed firmly in his stubble-ridden skin. Her hands still hold Dean's yellow plaid flannel clad arms in a death grip. And her left foot has yet to stop violently shaking.

"Dean?" She timidly calls.

"Hmm." His baritone voice rumbles in his chest and sends vibrations to the tips of Rosemarie's toes.

"I'm sorry if I dented your car."

Her voice, though thick with the sound of tears, is much steadier and calmer than before. 

Dean steals a glance at Baby's driver door. He does frown at the offending dent he spots there, but it's nothing 20 minutes with the right tool won't fix.

"Don't you worry about my Baby, sweetheart, I'll fix her up in no time at all."

He did try not to sound angry at her, but he felt her flinch just the same.

"My brother left some of his mechanic tools at my farm, and I know for a fact that there's one of those undenting whatchmacallit machine thingies in that unholy pile of junk." She sniffles." You're more than welcome to use it. As part of my apology."

Dean squeezes her a little as he answers. "Sure thing, Rosemarie, sounds like a plan!" Than he flashes his warm smile at her when she peeks up at him from his shoulder.

She smiles back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean would never get seriously angry at a woman for hurting Baby if she really didn't do it on purpose. Sue me.
> 
> If you'd like, you can leave me some lovely kudos and comments!
> 
> Stay safe and God bless!
> 
> P.S. this chapter was such a royal pain in the ass to churn out, it literally took me 5 months to write this. Thank God I love the story too much to abandon it!

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you lovely people enjoy this work as much as I enjoy writing it! Hugs!!!
> 
> I know, it's a short prologue, but the chapters are longer. ;)


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